Of Wedding Proposals and Tree Climbing
by ncfan
Summary: (And how one goes better than the other) Elatan proposes marriage. Silmariën has to confirm a few things.


I own nothing.

* * *

"Will you marry me?"

The question is put to her highly casually, enough so that it would have been remarkable out of someone else, but not so out of Elatan. Silmariën knows him well enough to recognize that candor and value it. Still, it throws her off, just a bit.

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Meanwhile, Írimon is climbing higher and higher up the tree in the courtyard. "Írimon, come down!" Isilmë cries desperately, pale brow creased in worry.

"But if I climb to the top of the tree, I might be able to see the stars!"

"You can't see the stars when the Sun's out, silly, no matter how high you go! Now come down; you'll fall!"

Silmariën and Elatan stand in the shade beneath the veranda, leaning against the pillars staring at each other quite intently and completely oblivious to the mischief playing out in the Sun-drenched courtyard. "Is there any particular reason for this request?" Silmariën asks, suspicious and hating herself for it.

What has Elatan ever done to inspire suspicion in her? Nothing. He has never been anything but open and friendly and gentle, well-loved. _Very _well-loved, Silmariën will admit without embarrassment or shame, and loving in return. But she still has to think twice when anyone makes such an offer to her, even Elatan. _Or perhaps especially him._

Silmariën will never be Queen of Númenor. She knows that, even if it still rankles from time to time. That falls to the boy currently trying (extremely clumsily) to climb down out of the tree in the courtyard. Yes, Silmariën has her pangs of envy and regret, wondering what could have been, knowing she could have been Queen, could have been great. But Írimon is still her brother. She will not see his life, or the lives of any of his potential children put in danger so that she and hers might have a chance to wrest control of the throne and the sceptre.

The easy smile fades from Elatan's face, replaced with a significantly more serious expression. "Just the reason a man normally proposes marriage to a woman."

Considering what Silmariën knows of marriage, both here and in Endóre, that does not exactly fill her with confidence. She searches his face cautiously, praying that she will discern no hint of ulterior motives in his eyes. "And what exactly do you expect to get our of marrying me, Elatan?"

"You," he says simply.

A soft breeze winds its way through the veranda. Silmariën breathes in deeply, trying to find it in her to say what must be said. "I will never be Queen of Númenor, Elatan. I will never be any more than I am now." She remembers pointing to the stars, and her heart hurts; he must remember that too, he must. "I will never be anything more than the King's granddaughter, then his daughter, and then his sister." _And you are not of the line of Elros. If childbirth does not take me in death, I must outlive you. Can I live with that? Can you?_

"I know that." Silmariën stares at him, and Elatan smiles lightly. "I think we've had this conversation before, Silmariën, even if marriage wasn't a part of it last time. I'm not asking to marry your father, or your brother; I'm asking to marry _you_. Never would I want to be King of Númenor. Nor would I want for our son to be King. That would mean that the Prince or his children would have died."

_You pass the test._

Silmariën's face breaks into a relieved smile. "You've no idea how happy I am to hear you say that, Elatan. I would have hated to have to turn you down." She leans up to kiss him, arms around his shoulders, heart in her mouth. Maybe never being Queen of anything won't be that bad.

A loud crash abruptly breaks the moment.

Írimon has fallen from the tree, and lies sprawled on the ground, face cut and lip wobbling. Isilmë leans over him, white-faced, trying to get him back up to his feet, but even from under the veranda Silmariën can see that his right ankle is twisted at an unnatural and likely highly painful angle. _Broken or twisted, I've no doubt._

"We'd better get him inside," Elatan mutters as thin, pitiful sobs start to echo through the courtyard.

Silmariën sighs. "Yes, we'd better."

There will be two announcements for her father when they get inside, then.

* * *

Írimon—the birth-name of Tar-Meneldur

Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)


End file.
